


Our Knight And Seer

by orsumfenix



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arguing, Blindness, Charities, Draco Malfoy Being an Asshole, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Series, make that Lots of Arguing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 17:52:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12846396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orsumfenix/pseuds/orsumfenix
Summary: ‘For I was blind but now I see.’ At least, that’s how it’ssupposedto go. Unfortunately, Draco’s a lot closer to ‘blind and still an unrelenting asshole.’





	Our Knight And Seer

**Author's Note:**

> hi welcome to thousands of words of draco malfoy arguing with people  
> i almost didnt write this bc itd be 'too self-indulgent' but then i remembered all fanfiction is self indulgence so here it is

“I got the job.”

Draco frowns. “What job?”

“The assistant job,” Blaise clarifies, in the tone of voice one tends to adopt when they’re friends with Draco Malfoy. “I was telling you about it, remember?”

“Oh. _That_ job.”

Draco does not remember.

“The thing is,” Blaise continues, not fazed in the slightest. “I didn’t tell you everything. I never said who I was going to be assisting.”

Draco’s nose wrinkles as he manages to dredge up the vague recollection of what Blaise said last week.

“It was that – _charity_ thing, right? Ugh, I can barely stand to say the word. You’ve cursed me, Zabini.”

“Mm-hmm. It’s for orphans.”

“I’m very disappointed in you,” Draco tells him, entirely seriously. Blaise probably isn’t surprised, because Blaise is never surprised. Blaise wasn’t surprised when his seventh stepfather’s body was found in the pool at his fourteenth birthday party, even if everyone he’d invited over shrieked.

 _Draco_ didn’t shriek and he didn’t try to hide behind Vince. Anyone that says otherwise is getting sued.

“Would you be less disappointed if I told you I’m starting as Harry Potter’s assistant?”

Blaise chooses to relay this information as Draco is taking a rather large gulp of coffee, which ends up going everywhere. He puts his mug down mournfully, stubbornly refusing to wipe away the coffee definitely on his hand.

“Sabotage him!” he demands, pointing ahead. Blaise doesn’t even hesitate.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“For me?”

“Is that meant to encourage me?”

Draco scowls, finally giving in and wiping his hand on the tablecloth, because he’s not fucking wiping it on _himself_ , now, is he? Across the table, the sound of Blaise murmuring a cleaning charm hits his ears.

“I want to keep this job,” Blaise says in that insufferable matter-of-fact tone he loves so much. Usually Draco can tolerate it, because usually it’s not directed at him. Today, it deepens his scowl.

“Why are you working for Potter if you’re not planning on sabotaging him? What’s the _point?_ ” He blanches at the thought that pops into his mind. “Merlin’s tits, you’re not planning on _seducing_ him, are you?”

“Not unless I have to,” Blaise informs coolly. Then he goes all patronising. “I care about the poor orphans, of course.”

“Zabini, you’re a good liar, but you’re not _that_ good.”

Blaise sighs. “Fine. Working for Harry Potter is going to be my ticket _up_ , Malfoy. Imagine how good it’ll look having him listed as my former employer. It should only take a few months before everyone else is _begging_ to have me.”

It is a rather good idea. Draco wishes he’d thought of it himself. Unfortunately, there’s no way Potter would even _consider_ hiring him.

“What if he doesn’t give you a good reference?” he asks, for the simple reason of wanting to be A Downer. “What if Potter tells the entire wizarding world that you’re an incompetent buffoon? Even if that title _is_ more fitting of him.”

“Harry Potter is a bit of an idiot.” Ha! Like Draco needed to be told _that!_ He opens his mouth to vehemently agree, but Blaise interrupts before he can. “I’m going to be his _assistant_. Once I’ve spent long enough there that it’s acceptable for me to leave, I’ll probably end up writing my own reference. I doubt he’ll stop me.”

“It’s an okay plan,” Draco finally concedes, draining what remains of his poor coffee. He can’t believe he lost some of it because of Blaise’s Big News. This all Potter’s fault. “Very cunning of you. Well done!”

Blaise doesn’t even bother to say thank you. He just lets out a small, calculated chuckle.

“I’m not looking for your approval. I just figured that Pansy would end up telling you and you’d shout at me if I didn’t let you know first.”

“No I wouldn’t.” He totally would. He can picture it now. Pansy would tell him, and Draco would be outraged, and he’d Floo over to Blaise’s and start ranting about House Unity and Trust Between Friends and continuing Draco Malfoy Hates Harry Potter, Very, Very Much: The Saga. “How _dare_ you say such things! I should sue you for slander.”

“Go ahead. See how much you get.”

Draco huffs. “The only reason I’m _not_ is because I’m already rich and I don’t _need_ your money. Especially since most of it probably came from some affluent, recently-deceased sod your mother offed.”

“I’d argue but I think you’re right.”

“Of course I am. I _always_ am.”

“Only Goyle really thinks that.”

“Greg,” Draco starts decisively, “is the smartest minion of you all.”

“He’s the only one dumb enough to accept being called a ‘minion’.”

“He’s the only one smart enough to see how liberating it is!”

Blaise doesn’t reply, which Draco recognises as his overly-used method of finishing an argument he doesn’t know how to win. Draco smirks, drumming his fingers against the table. He hopes it looks cunning. It certainly used to when his father did it.

“So! When do you start your sucking up – oh, I’m sorry, _lowly assistant_ job?”

“Next week. I’ve got two days to learn how things work and then I’m raising money to look after and improve the lives of orphans.”

“Careful not to raise _too_ much, Zabini,” Draco mocks, grinning. “If you turn too goody two-shoes you might just become Potter’s double, and _god_ knows one of him’s far too much already.”

“I wonder if he talks about you as much as you talk about him?” Blaise muses. Draco’s grin morphs into a scowl. “I guess I’ll find out. Maybe he has a saga called Harry Potter Hates Draco Malfoy.”

“He _does_ hate me. It’s mutual. Except that I hate him for valid reasons, like his stupidity and his righteousness and his face. _He_ hates _me_ because he’s jealous of my good looks and amazing taste in everything.”

“Hmm.”

One day, Draco will do an impression of Blaise and it’ll consist of lots of ‘hmms’ and falling silent to win arguments and being unsurprised when he finds a stepfather’s body in a strange place.

He’s already got his Pansy down to a point. It includes a lot of simpering. Goyle’s means looking very confused but also rather stubbornly clinging to impossible ambitions. Hermione Granger includes sticking his front teeth out and putting his nose in a book.

He doesn’t do Vince anymore.

“I’m all finished,” Blaise says, interrupting Draco’s thoughts. “You?”

“No.”

“Yeah, you are. You finished five minutes ago.”

Blaise is right, but instead of conceding Draco sticks his nose in the air.

“I want to order another coffee.”

“You can have one at the flat. I’ll make it for you, if you’re that desperate.”

Draco’s lip curls. “Fine.” He stands, fingers closing around his cane on the way. “Show me out, would you?”

“Certainly, Draco.”

\--

Blaise stays at Draco’s flat for about an hour, criticizing the décor as though Draco gave a shit about stuff like that to begin with.

There’s a reason Draco prefers Greg.

The only good thing about Blaise being there is that he makes coffee almost exactly the way Draco likes it. It’s gone in a few minutes, and when Draco asks for more Blaise just laughs and tells him his curtains are ugly.

Which is about when Draco has An Idea.

\--

“Harry Potter! Just the man I wanted to see!”

It is, all things considered, a bad choice of phrasing, but like _fuck_ is he admitting to Harry Potter of all people that he’s made a mistake. Instead, Draco squares his shoulders, ramps up his smile, and asks: “Didn’t your parents ever teach you manners? Of course they didn’t, they’re dead. But you’re _supposed_ to ask me if I want to come in.”

Potter is silent for a few moments. From beside Draco, Blaise clears his throat.

“He wanted to speak to you, so I brought him to your office. I hope you don’t mind.”

Draco’s pretty sure Blaise knows that Potter probably _does_ mind, quite a lot. But then Blaise’s warmth is gone from his side and he’s left standing alone in front of Potter’s office door.

Said imbecile finally seems to catch his voice. “Malfoy! What are you doing here? And why are you wearing those glasses? You look weird.”

Draco raises a brow.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that, and in exchange I assume you’re going to let me inside?”

He does.

The door shuts behind Draco once he’s stepped inside the ‘office’. His nose wrinkles. It smells suspiciously of garlics.

“Pretending to be blind, are we?” Potter’s voice asks from where his footsteps are leading. Draco’s cane hits three – boxes? and what _feels_ like a pile of dirty laundry. Merlin. Ten seconds in and he’s already sneering.

“Pretending to have a brain, are we?” he mocks. “Though, let’s be honest, you were never very good at that.”

“Ha, ha. Funny as ever, Malfoy.”

“I think so, too. Is there a seat somewhere in here?” As if on cue, his cane hits something large. Draco prods at it. “This is a sofa, yes?”

“What? Oh, yeah.” Potter’s tone is way too sarcastic for someone with No Brain. “I can see how you’d miss it, it only takes up half the room.”

“ _Does_ it now.” The room is small, then. Draco feels a stab of satisfaction at knowing Harry Potter doesn’t have a big office. Or a tidy one, most probably. “So, you’re the Boy Who Lived In Squalor. Lovely to know some things never change. I bet this sofa’s lumpy and brown.”

Potter mumbles something that sounds like “it’s not _that_ lumpy,” accompanied by the horrible scraping of a chair being moved.

Draco almost sinks into the Probably Awful Sofa. Lovely.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re here?” Potter asks abruptly, annoyed as all hell. “And why you’re – making up being blind. That’s kind of a shitty thing to do, you know.”

He hums. “It would be, if that was what I was actually doing. To answer your first question, if you can put two and two together here: Your job is charity work. Lots of rich people donate to charities. I am a rich person.”

“You’re saying you want to donate to my charity?” It’s very sceptical. He completely understands and Potter is absolutely right to be this way, but Draco still scowls.

“Yes. I’m surprised you even figured out that much.”

“I – shut up. Why?”

“I care about the poor orphans, of course.” Mimicking Blaise is entirely too satisfying. He really should do it more.

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s true! I thought about how sad they must be not having parents and just felt positively _awful_. And Blaise told me that you hadn’t had any big donations yet, which I’m assuming is due to poor advertising.”

He can practically _hear_ Potter’s confusion.

“Who?”

“Blaise Zabini? Your assistant?”

“I thought his name was – never mind. Wait, he’s been talking shit about me?”

Draco waves an arm. “Doesn’t matter. What _does_ matter is that, like I said, you haven’t had any big donations yet. Those poor orphans must be starving as we speak!”

“Do you actually know what my charity does?”

He pauses. “Helps orphans?”

“Well, yes, but – anyone impacted by the war, though it’s primarily children who’ve lost family in it. We make sure that they have a place to go and someone who’ll look after them and that wherever they end up staying has enough money to get by on.”

“And what if they don’t have anywhere to go?”

“We find somewhere,” Potter says firmly. Draco nods. It’s hard to keep up the façade of caring.

“That’s nice.” A vague answer. It’s not fooling either of them. “Where do I give in my money?”

“Look – are you sure? You’ve never really seemed the…charity type.”

 _I’m not. I’m copying Blaise’s plan of making a good name for myself by donating money to a charity run by the famous Harry Potter, thus allowing everyone to think of me as very Kind and Generous._ He settles on: “Appearances can be misleading,” which doesn’t quite convey the whole breadth but sounds a lot better.

Potter’s probably pulling a constipated face right now. Potter’s always pulling a constipated face. Draco’s pretty sure he’s never seen him _not_ pulling a constipated face.

“Is this – are you up to something?” Potter asks. Well.

“You mean _other_ than benefitting the poor orphans?”

“Obviously.”

“I don’t see why I should be. Not everything I do is part of an evil scheme, you know. I can be nice.”

“You’re pretending to be blind.”

“Well,” Draco says. “No.”

“Oh my – would you just fuck off?!”

“Do you want my money or not?”

“Of course I do!” Potter snaps, and _yikes_. Touchy. “Just give it to…my assistant or something. And get out of my office!”

“I can’t _believe_ this. I show up, offering you money to help house the orphans, and you kick me out. What do you think the Daily Prophet would say if they heard about this?”

“Malfoy, don’t you _dare_.”

Draco tilts his head. “If you hadn’t done anything wrong, you wouldn’t have anything to worry about.”

Potter’s voice is dangerously low. “I said get out.”

He widens his eyes, lying: “But I don’t know the way!”

“Yes, you do. So see yourself out. Emphasis on the ‘see’!”

“Okay,” Draco drawls, standing up as slowly as he can manage and levelling a glare. He _really hopes_ he’s facing the right direction. “You’re clearly insane, so I’m going to go. Because I’m tired, not because you told me to. But I’ll be back!”

“Please never speak to me again.”

“Oh, if _only_ we both had that luxury.”

\--

“Harry Potter thinks you’re faking being blind.”

Draco snorts into his coffee, unable to resist grinning.

“Harry Potter is an imbecile.”

“So are you.”

“ _What?_ No I’m not!”

“Yeah,” Blaise says. “You are.”

Draco pointedly glares, choosing not to reply. After a moment, Blaise continues.

“You should’ve heard him. He kept muttering to himself, which I _guess_ is at least a bit normal, but – merlin, Draco, it was literally all about you. He kept saying that you must’ve been ‘up to something’. Except he didn’t seem concerned with me being there.”

“Has he forgotten that we know each other?” Draco inquires, frowning thoughtfully. Blaise snorts.

“I think he’s forgotten I even went to his _school_. He hasn’t called me by name _once_.”

“Classic Potter.”

“It’d be funny if it wasn’t so sad,” Blaise agrees. Then: “How much money are you giving him, anyway?”

Draco shrugs.

“It depends how much other people have given him. It needs to be The Most.”

“That’s not going to be hard. The most we’ve had from one person is about thirty galleons.”

He stops, horrified.

“That’s _nothing!_ How has The Boy Who Lived To Take It All not gotten any more than that? That’s _pathetic!_ ” And pretty funny, and perfect, and brilliant. Because of _course_ Potter’s just as obnoxiously bad at raising money as he is at everything else.

“It won’t be that difficult to beat, then.”

He’s not wrong. As usual. Draco’s mouth twists.

“But it’s got to be _significant_. At _least_ enough to feed an orphan for a while. It’s a pity you can’t just buy them new parents to replace their old ones.” He pauses. “Or can you?”

“You’re awful,” Blaise says, like they didn’t establish this many, _many_ years ago. “What did Potter say to you? He looked really…ruffled, when you left.”

Draco snorts.

“Ruffled like a person who’s just realised their school rival is _way better_ than them. It’s tragic, really.”

“Okay, that was weak, even by your standards.”

“My standards are impeccable. They’re the very opposite of Potter’s hair.”

“Better. Though I guess all your insults are way too petty to ever actually be _good_.”

He hums instead of replying, taking a leaf out Blaise’s book. A taste of his own medicine! It’s certainly what he deserves.

“You never answered my question,” Blaise says. “What did he say to you?”

Draco’s arm waves practically on its own.

“He was very rude and very mean and acted as though he didn’t want my help at all. He’d rather let the orphans _starve_ than accept even a penny from me! His pride knows no bounds, Zabini. And they call him a _hero_.”

“He is a hero. He saved the Wizarding World.”

“Yes, which I’m _quite_ certain was pure luck. He probably just took a felix felicis that morning.”

“Malfoy, the Wizarding World includes you too. You should probably show a little gratitude.” Blaise pauses. “Didn’t he pull you out of a fire once?”

His cheeks heat up against his will. _Ugh_. It’s awful when this happens. He’s so _annoyingly pale_ that it probably looks very obvious and very terrible and very embarrassing. Draco scoffs, turning his head as though his face isn’t giving it all away.

“Fire? What fire? I can’t remember any fires.”

“You are _so_ immature.”

“I’m a flawless wizard, and you’d do well to learn from me.”

“Stop. Just stop.”

Draco puts his elbow on the table, leaning on his arm. “Do you think I should tell the newspapers about Potter being mean to me? It’d make quite a good story. Probably the best one they’ve had in ages.”

“Don’t do that,” Blaise advises, as though Draco’s question wasn’t rhetorical. He sneers.

“You can’t tell me what to do, Zabini.”

“No, but I can give you advice. I told you not to join He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, remember? Then you went and did it anyway. Look how that turned out.”

Draco scowls.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“That’s not the point. The point is that you could see before and now you can’t. If you’d have just _listened_ to me, you wouldn’t be in this situation.”

He’s not sure at what point this conversation took a sudden serious turn, or why Blaise has an undertone of what sounds like _guilt_ , something Blaise can’t even _feel_ , but if this an argument then Draco’s sure as fuck not losing.

“I don’t see why you’re so bothered,” he snarls, fingers tightly gripping the table edge. “You’re the one that _ran away_ when everything started to go wrong.”

“I made the smart choice.”

“You _abandoned_ us!”

“Let me rephrase: I made the Slytherin choice.”

“How _dare_ you!” He stands up so fast his head spins, but he keeps his face fixed in the snarl. “You know what, Zabini? Consider our little coffee dates _cancelled_. I never want to see you again.”

“You’re never going to see anything again,” Blaise says quietly, and Draco is so outraged that he can’t even form words.

He ends up Apparating away without replying. It’s not cool and it’s not mature, but he’s used to being a coward by now. Blaise can suck it. If he thinks Draco’s indulging him in – whatever the fuck _that_ was, he’s got another thing coming.

\--

He tells the Daily Prophet about Potter, of course. And the Witch Weekly. He would tell the Quibbler as well, but it’s run by a loon who’d almost certainly twist it to be about Potter’s righteousness, so he eventually decides against it. 

The story is simple: he showed up to donate to Potter’s charity, and Potter rudely rebuffed his offer and demanded (rather impolitely, he might add) that Draco leave the building immediately. Of course, he’ll continue to try contributing despite the obstacle of a power-mad Potter, because that’s just how much he cares about the orphans.

Okay, so maybe some of it’s an exaggeration. But that’s just how good stories work!

Pansy, the Witch Weekly’s junior editor, helps him embellish the details. They decide that the charity is failing, which the Weekly speculates is due to poor management by Potter. Draco’s offer of a contribution was the last hope of the floundering orphans. Has their war hero and saviour finally snapped?

After the story’s printed and they’ve had a good laugh, Pansy tells him that she knows he and Blaise have argued.

“It’s hilarious,” she proclaims, nails seemingly drumming on the table. “Really. It’s about time he aired things out.”

Draco scowls. What he’s scowling at, he’s not quite sure himself.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Blaise has been feeling guilty that he ran away during the war,” Pansy says matter-of-factly. “He told me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Zabini doesn’t _have_ feelings.”

“Then how do you explain how he fell apart in my arms about coming back to find Vince dead and you blind and the rest of us various levels of fucked up?”

Draco blinks. Blaise ‘fell apart’? Blaise hasn’t so much as said ‘ouch’ when getting a paper cut. He certainly can’t have _fallen apart_.

“You’re lying,” he accuses. Pansy hums.

“Believe that if you want. Hey, have you heard about the Daily Prophet? Their chief editor’s been sacked!”

The conversation shifts, but Draco’s mind lingers.

He knows what he’s _supposed_ to do, of course. He’s supposed to confront Blaise and demand that he explain himself. Then he’s supposed to give him the money for that stupid charity thing. That’d be the _right_ course of action.

So, of course, Draco doesn’t take it.

\--

After the newspapers have had two days to circle, he spells his quill to write a letter to Potter telling him to come over and get the money, if he even cares about the orphans enough to want it.

Sure enough, Potter’s there in about half an hour, almost breaking the door with how hard he knocks.

“Your owl is _evil_ ,” he blurts, annoyance colouring his words as he moves past Draco and into the living room. “This better be good.”

“Of course it’s _good_ , it’s money.” He follows Potter at an irritatingly close distance, just for the sake of it. “To help the poor orphans so they don’t starve.”

“Didn’t I just tell you to give it my assistant?”

“I can’t.” Not wanting to divulge that they’ve sort of had a row and now he’s scared to face him, he adds: “He smells.”

“Right.” Silence. Merlin’s genitals, this is awkward. That’s probably what happens when school rivals try to be civil. “I saw the newspapers.”

Draco’s lips curl upwards.

“Ah. They were rather good, don’t you think? The best story they’ve had in ages. And the most accurate.”

“Oh, come off it, you made half of that up.” Draco dips his head, not replying. Potter lets out a long sigh. “But for what it’s worth…I’m sorry I accused you of faking being blind.”

He blinks. Now _that’s_ not what he expected.

“What?”

“Look, you just – you startled me, that’s all. I didn’t know. But now I do and I’m not going to say you’re faking it again.”

Potter’s a really terrible liar.

“Uh- _huh_. Is this because my newspaper report made you see the error of your ways?”

“Not really. I just thought about it a bit. Thanks for your report, by the way.”

Smugly, “You’re welcome.”

“No, I’m being serious.” Draco’s smile drops. “I don’t think most people even knew that I _had_ a charity, so we didn’t get any big donations. Or many donations at all, to be honest. But now your thing’s been printed everyone knows. We’ve had more contributions over the past two days than we’ve had the past two weeks.”

His mouth moves soundlessly. This is outrageous. And even worse: _he’s involved_. He _made_ this happen. Curse his inability to keep silent if it means humiliating Potter!

“Has anyone given you over two hundred galleons?” he finally manages to ask.

“Yeah. Millicent Bulstrode did.”

Millicent Bulstrode can suck his arse.

Merlin, she’s stolen his _whole_ plan! Draco was supposed to contribute a large amount and then Potter would have no choice but to admit that Draco’s donation had saved all the orphans from certain doom. But now _everyone’s_ doing it before he’s even had the chance!

His features contort. Outside, the rain pounds heavily on the windows. He used to put silencing spells up, but now he quite likes the sound. It’s weirdly comforting.

“Well – I suppose you’ll just have to tell all the newspapers that it’s thanks to me your charity’s doing well. Go on, if you must. I’ll just have to take it.”

“It’s not doing well because of you, though, is it? It’s because there’s actually some decent people around, and they genuinely want to help instead of just doing it to look good.”

Draco is offended. _Very_ offended. Even if Potter’s a hundred percent right about his motivations, it’s still pretty god damn derogatory.

“Don’t pretend to know anything about me! Just because the world suddenly _thinks_ you’re great that doesn’t mean that you are!”

Potter’s confusion could fill a river.

“What?”

Draco spreads his arms.

“The world has somehow been tricked into believing you’re wonderful and competent. Clearly, they’re mistaken. I’m obviously _much_ more so.”

“But,” Potter says. “You’re blind.”

Astute as ever.

“Was that a criticism of the differently-abled?”

“I wasn’t – I mean, I was just saying.”

“I’d forego that in the future. Save everyone the hassle.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be nicer now? Shouldn’t you have, I dunno, re-evaluated your life choices and decided to make a change? ‘For I was blind but now I see’, and all that.”

Draco hums. “As a matter of fact, I _did_ re-evaluate my life choices. I came to the conclusion that you were responsible for everything.”

“So you’re still a prat, then?”

“We can’t all be shining beacons of righteousness!”

 “But we can try,” Potter says, which is the most _over-dramatic_ thing Draco’s ever heard. It’s said all serious, quiet but somehow resounding, and fuck this.

“ _Why_ are you acting like the hero of the world?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I _am_ the hero of the world.”

A noise that’s half way between frustration and a snarl emerges from Draco’s throat. Harry Potter can go to hell. Forever. It used to be so amusing teasing him, watching him go red and seeing the Weasel get ready to square up and now it’s not the same, Potter’s not even _upset_ , he’s not got that stupid/hilarious tone in his voice and –

“You used to be so much fun! What _happened_ to you?”

“I grew up!”

“So did I!”

“No, you didn’t!”

Fine! But: “That’s because it’s for _boring_ people!”

“ _You’re_ boring!”

Draco pauses and tries very hard not to gasp. “You take that back.”

“I thought you’d have changed,” comes Potter’s quiet and disappointed tone. A wave of discomfort runs through Draco’s stomach. Since when has Potter had any expectations for him to disappoint? “But you’re just as blind as ever.”

His footsteps start to move away. Draco can’t quite decide whether to frown or laugh, and instead calls: “You could get in trouble for saying that, you know! Poking fun of a disabled person!”

He doesn’t get a reply.

Potter lets himself out, if the door slamming is anything to go by. Draco stays standing in the same spot, numb and not quite sure what just happened, or why he’s shaking.

He never even got to give Potter the money. Not that he wanted to. But, still. It seems like such a waste to see such a glorious plan go unfulfilled.

A new plan is in order, then. It’s an easy decision to make. He won’t say sorry to Blaise and he’s _certainly_ not letting an apology get near Potter’s virtuous fingers, but the money can still go to the charity. He can still send the message that he’s a Nice Person.

Even if some people might disagree.

\--

“Mr Malfoy, could you state it again for the record?”

He makes his eyes as wide as they’ll go, trying for a look of innocence.

“Harry Potter made fun of me.”

“Because you’re blind?”

“Yes. I was _so_ upset.”

“Did he _know_ he was upsetting you?”

“Oh, he must’ve done. I think it’s because I let it slip that he was mean to me that one time. Now he’s being even worse. He probably wants to _murder_ me!”

“Murder! Do you think he’d ever stretch to such a thing?”

“Well, he did murder He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,” Draco points out, trying very hard not to let his lips twitch up. “And I know it was a wonderful thing for him to do, and I’m _ever_ so grateful, but – well, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. How do we know that that wasn’t the start of something bigger? Something _darker_.”

He’s practically writing their article for them, at this point. They should just let him take over completely.

Once he’s finished, Potter is a borderline psychopath in need of serious help and just might have some body odour issues. The woman he is speaking to gobbles it up like a thirsty bloodhound. She reminds him of Rita Skeeter.

He always admired Rita Skeeter.

At which point Draco runs out of things to do. His job – fixing broken wards and magical objects – pays well whenever he does it, but most of the time he’s just kind of stuck doing nothing.

It used to be that insulting Potter would be a nice hobby to fill his spare time. But now, if he’s not even going to get _upset_ about it…Well, there just isn’t much point, is there?

Draco sighs, and Apparates home to curl up in a chair.

\--

“Draco, darling!”

He hunkers down further. He’s not in the mood for Pansy. He’s not in the mood for _anyone_ , excepting perhaps his mother.

He’s not even in the mood for himself.

“Go away. I’m in a bad mood.”

“You’re _always_ in a bad mood.”

“I am – not!” He tries to think back to the last time he was in a good mood, fails, and asks: “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be snuggling up to your _boyfriend?_ ”

The word is wrapped in scathing and is supposed to be insulted, but Pansy just laughs.

“I’m here because you had a row with him and now he’s being all melodramatic. I need you to start being on good terms with him again. If you’d just been miserable alone it would’ve been fine, but _no_ , you had to drag Blaise into it, and now it’s affecting my sex life!”

“I don’t care.”

“Did I ask for your opinion?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re getting it.”

There the rain goes again. Pounding against the windows at all hours. Hasn’t anyone ever just told it to shut up? Well. Anyone other than him, that is.

Somewhere in front of him, Pansy sighs. “Do try to cheer up, Draco, this gets so _boring_ after a while.”

He glowers.

“I don’t want to cheer up. I want to sulk.”

She snorts. “Blaise too, not that he’ll admit it. This is getting ridiculous! Just _talk_ to each other.”

Draco scowls.

“We only fell out two days ago!”

“Yes, and it’s already getting annoying. Doesn’t that tell you something? About how completely and utterly _irritating_ you can be?”

“Yes, I’m aware, thank you.”

A very frustrated pause ensues, during which he’s pretty sure Pansy taps her foot on the floor. And then: “What are you even sulking about?”

“I’ve managed to have two serious arguments over the past two days,” he says darkly, shifting so he’s facing the space her voice is coming from. “My Clever Plan is in a shambles. Potter _refuses_ to get upset. Even the orphans must be doing better than me right now.”

“Oh, shut up.”

He blinks.

“What?”

“Both of those arguments were probably your fault,” she accuses, and, well – she’s got a point. “And I’m betting you haven’t made a move to fix them, seeing as you’re a coward.” His mouth flaps soundlessly for a few seconds, struggling to catch up to what she’s saying. “What,” Pansy sneers, malevolence and joy all mixed up in her voice. “Did you think I was going to give you sympathy and snuggles and put a blanket over you as you drift off to a woeful slumber?”

He can’t believe this. He can’t believe that she’s _right_. Of course she was never going to do that. That’s more Greg’s street, if anything.

“Don’t get me wrong, Draco,” she continues, tone turning softer. “I care about you very much, and I want to see you happy. But if you don’t sort this thing with Blaise out, I’ll hang you from the ceiling by your balls.”

\--

Draco _really_ doesn’t want to sort this thing with Blaise out.

He ends up sleeping on the chair, waking up with a crick in his neck and a large amount of Regret. Ugh. This is that stupid chair’s fault.

On the way to the kitchen, his foot hits something that isn’t usually there. After several moments of frantically righting himself and glowering down at whatever the _fuck_ that was, it dawns on him that it’s the sack of galleons he meant to give to Potter.

Really, he should kill two birds with one stone. He should go over to Potter’s office, apologise to Blaise outside, drop the money off and hope that means Potter isn’t going to murder him.

Instead, he spells the bag to be lighter, fetches the owl treats for Regulus, and listens to him flying away with the money.

His Bad Mood persists over the next few days, even once it's gone past what his mother calls 'the acceptable period to be miserable for'. In all honesty, he's been in that stage for years. Sometimes he feels like he woke up in a bad mood in sixth year and never got out of it. Like he got out the wrong side of bed and then couldn't find the _right_ side. Maybe at this point there's no right side to even find.

He’s still in the Bad Mood when someone knocks on the door.

“Whoever you are, go away!” he shouts, striding over and swinging it open. He sneers, just in case it’s someone he doesn’t like. If it’s his mother he’ll be in trouble.

“It’s me,” Harry Potter says.

“Are you deaf?” Draco asks impatiently, leaning against the doorframe. “I said ‘whoever you are, go away’. You are whoever. So be gone.”

“I wanted to say thank you,” Potter presses firmly. Merlin, he’s always been stubborn, hasn’t he? “For the money you sent. It might not’ve been our biggest contribution but it’s going to make a difference.”

“It was two hundred galleons,” Draco drawls. “Hardly worthy of face-to-face thanks. Why didn’t you just send an owl? Or, better yet, never speak to me again and ignore my contribution completely?”

“Well, I couldn’t send an owl, could I? How would you read it?”

“With a text-to-speech spell,” Draco says slowly, as if talking to a dimwit. Scratch that, he _is_ talking to a dimwit. Fuck it, if Potter’s not going to bring it up he might as well come out and say it: “Aren’t you upset about what I told the papers?”

“You mean how you said I was basically insane, and needed to be locked away before I went on a murder spree of deaf old women?”

“Well. Yes.”

Potter lets out a slow sigh. “I’m not upset, Malfoy.”

“Why not?” Which is about the point where he realises they’re still standing at his door, but if he interrupts the conversation to invite him inside now it’ll be awkward. God. They’re just going to have to keep standing here, then. “If I’m mean to you, you should get upset. That’s how this is supposed to work.”

“Maybe that’s how it worked when we were kids, Malfoy, but we’ve both grown up since then. Or at least, I have. _You’re_ doing a very good job of acting like a toddler throwing a tantrum.”

Sometimes Draco thinks his whole _life_ has been one big toddler tantrum.

“But -” he starts, and then stops. Great. His brain has failed to think of a witty retort in time. Thanks, brain. “That’s not what was _supposed_ to happen.”

He’d bet any money Potter’s raising a brow.

“And what was _supposed_ to happen?”

“You were _supposed_ to get all righteous and uppity about how you didn’t say that, you’d never say that, and it’s all _‘that bastard Malfoy’s fault’_ and look like an idiot for being mean about a blind person and then everyone would stop liking you again!”

Potter is silent for a good few seconds. Draco gets a funny little picture in his mind of his mouth moving soundlessly, kind of like a goldfish.

“I – what do you mean, _again?_ ”

“People hated you in school. Do you not remember? Oh Potter, you poor thing.”

“I only remember _you_ hating me.”

“I know. I was one of the people. Just one of many that despised your very guts. I like to think I was the ringleader, maybe, or at least the mascot. My hate was very public. The _newspapers_ knew about my hate.”

“The newspapers knew about everything because you _told_ them everything. You still do.”

Draco raises his head and sniffs.

“What else am I supposed to do for a living?”

“Something moral, perhaps?” Potter suggests, then pauses. “What _do_ you do for a living?”

“I fix magical items.” God, he’s so used to lying about stuff that telling the truth feels just plain _weird_. “It’s a well-paid and respectable job.”

“Oh.”

“What you mean _,_ ‘oh’?”

“I thought you were an – evil lawyer, or something.”

“Or something,” Draco mocks. “What, thought I made a living off sentencing innocents to death?” He can admit, it does sound like him. That doesn’t mean he won’t use every opportunity he can to make fun of Harry sodding Potter.

“It does sound like you.” He and Harry Potter have had a similar thought. No one can ever know.

Instead of ever admitting that they might just live on the same wavelength, Draco upturns his nose and asks: “Why are you still here?”

“I wanted to – speak to you.”

“You wanted,” Draco repeats slowly, “to speak to _me_ , whom you hate.”

“It’s not that far-fetched, is it?”

“It absolutely is,” he informs frankly. They’re still awkwardly stood at the door and at this point it’s clear neither of them is going to bring it up.

“Look,” Potter starts. “I figured that maybe we could talk. And I mean somewhere that isn’t your front door.”

Oh. So Potter _is_ going to bring it up, then.

Draco’s lip curls.

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“What?” Potter sounds very defensive. He’s probably right, then. “No! Why would you – no. Of course I’m not.”

“It sounds like you’re asking me on a date.”

“I want to talk,” Potter says hotly. “In a – café, or on a walk or something. Y’know. Catch up.”

“You want to catch up with someone you’ve hated since you were eleven, and were obviously looking forward to never seeing again? It seems like my article was right, after all. You really _are_ insane.”

“You’re making it sound weird. Stop making it sound weird!”

“It _is_ weird!” And strangely endearing, a thought which gives him a heart-attack as soon as he’s had it. “But, fine. We can talk about whatever it is you want to talk about. But we’re going to a restaurant. A fancy one. And you’re paying.”

“You’re _rich._ ”

“And you’re paying.” Draco smiles, tilting his head. “Shall we?”

\--

“I’d like the most expensive wine you have,” he tells the waiter. He doesn’t have to see Potter to know that he’s glaring.

“So,” Potter starts loudly, clearly trying to move past the experience. “How’s life been?”

“Oh, you know.” Draco waves an arm. “Dark.”

“Right. And you’ve been – coping well?”

“I suppose one could call it that.”

“Good. That’s…that’s great. Um. How are the other Slytherins?”

Draco gives what he hopes is a very flat look.

“Is this a ‘catch-up’ or an interrogation?”

“Sorry for being interested!” Potter defends. “I just – I don’t know. I’ve known you for longer than I haven’t, and it just seems _weird_ that I don’t have a clue what you’re doing now.”

“Yes, well,” Draco says, and can’t find a way to finish that doesn’t include the words ‘it’s sort of hard to view you as The Enemy when we’ve gone through a literal war which I’m very glad that you won, and also we’ve both said and done some embarrassing things including stalking each other, amen.’ The sentence ends up rounding off with: “I suppose I can’t blame you for wanting to know all about me,” which doesn’t really capture the message but it’ll have to do for now.

The wine glass clinks as it’s set in front of him, a welcome distraction.

“Are you still dating Parkinson?” Potter asks just as the glass reaches Draco’s lips. He takes a pointed gulp before lowering it.

“I haven’t been dating Pansy since fifth year.”

“Oh.”

“Did you really not know that?”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Potter defends, sounding _way_ too offended. Drama queen. “In sixth year she had her head in your lap!”

“Friends can do that.”

“Why did you break up, then?”

“Oh, the usual. I realised I didn’t quite swing that way, so to speak.”

“Huh?”

This stare better be as dead as he’s trying to make it. “I realised I’m gay.”

“Ah.” Harry Potter is quite possibly one of the most awkward people he’s ever met. “Are you, y’know – seeing anyone?”

Draco grins with his teeth. “I’m never _seeing_ anyone, no.”

“Oh my god, you know what I meant!”

“Did I?”

“Yes!” Potter bellows, and the tables around them fall silent. He clears his throat, saying quietly: “I’m, um. Bisexual.”

Draco raises a brow, taking another sip of wine.

“And I should care _why?_ ”

“Because we’re ‘catching up’, maybe? Because I think we might’ve finally found something in common?”

“Just because we both like men that doesn’t make us best friends.”

“Sod off.” Really, it’s a bit embarrassing that they can’t even have a normal conversation without it devolving into an argument in 0.2 seconds. “You never answered my question.”

He waits a few moments before answering, just so he doesn’t look too desperate.

“No, I’m not seeing anyone. Are you?”

“No. Ginny and I broke up a while back.”

“Who’s Ginny?”

“Ginny Weasley? You went to school together for at least five years?”

“ _Oh_. The Weaslette.”

“Don’t call her that,” Potter says, voice hard. Draco smirks.

“I thought that was her name.” He leans forwards, arms crossing. “So. For once the dashing hero _doesn’t_ get the girl. How very tragic.”

“It was mutual, _actually_. We just saw each other as friends.”

“Maybe she saw you as an embarrassment.”

“Good one, Malfoy.”

“Mm-hmm.”

They pass most of dinner in the same way: bringing up a topic, arguing about it, and somehow managing to learn things about each other. Draco’s incensed to realise that Potter isn’t actually bad company. At least when he has nothing to say he just goes silent, unlike a Certain Someone who likes to hum as if they’re simply above the whole thing.

Potter walks him home, which would be very nice if it wasn’t Potter and also for some reason dead-set against Apparating.

“It’s cold,” Draco complains. He’s very good at complaining. “This is all your fault.”

“How is the weather my fault?” Potter, the bastard, has the gall to sound amused. Draco scowls.

“Because everything is your fault! Also, you’re the one who insisted we walk back.”

“If I don’t get any exercise I won’t sleep.”

“Then you can exercise without _me._ ”

“Then you wouldn’t be able to sleep.”

Draco says coldly: “Don’t presume to know anything about me,” as though what Potter just said wasn’t entirely accurate.

“Use a warming spell, if you’re that cold.”

“I did. I still feel like an ice block.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re cold _inside_ ,” Potter mutters. He probably means it as an insult, but snakes are cold-blooded, which speaks for itself. “Just – stop whining, alright? Neville says they do things far worse than this in Auror training to build character.”

“My character’s already built,” Draco snaps, sniffing. “I’ve always had a strong personality, so there’s no need for me to wander through desolate streets of ice to make it stronger.”

He’s about to carry on in the veins of ‘and Longbottom can’t be trusted to correctly recount things, anyway, his brain’s smaller than yours and that’s really saying something’, but right at that moment Potter grabs his arm and stops.

“We’re here. At your flat, that is.”

“I know where ‘here’ is.” They stand in awkward silence for a few moments. Potter’s hand is still attached to his elbow, a pleasant source of warmth in the otherwise Blistering Cold.

“I guess I’ll get going, then.”

“Yes. Goodbye.”

“See you.”

Potter doesn’t move other than to detach his arm. The spot where he had his hand feels empty, now. Draco ignores it and squares his shoulders.

“Well, are you coming in, then?”

He can fucking _feel_ Potter’s eyes on him as they walk inside. Draco, after losing his sight, still has five main senses: hearing, touch, smell, taste, and Harry Potter being an idiot. It’s the last one that’s got him curling up his lip now, calmly approaching the sofa and standing in front of it.

“Don’t hover, Potter.”

“How would you even know if I was hovering?”

“I can _sense_ it.”

“Really.” Potter sounds unimpressed. Maybe he caught sight of his own reflection. “And it couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you can see me?”

“Somehow, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, come off it, Malfoy! You walked in here like it was nothing! You didn’t bump into anything! If you were _really_ blind, you would’ve tripped and you wouldn’t’ve known I was hovering!”

Draco points a triumphant finger.

“A- _ha!_ So you admit you were hovering!”

“That is _not the point!”_

Draco opens his mouth to respond, but all that comes out is an undignified squeak as something comes barrelling into him and knocks him to the floor.

_“Ow!”_

“Admit it! Admit you’re not blind!”

‘Something’ is Harry Potter. ‘Something’ is an insane, crazy, synonyms school nemesis.

 “Get _off_ me, you – raving imbecile!”

“What, are you gonna report it to the press again?”

“This time I have a _right_ to! Fuck.” He breathes heavily, not wanting to admit that Potter was stronger than expected. “Potter, you are _mental_. An absolute _nutjob._ How does Blaise put up with you?”

“Blaise? Do you mean Bloan?”

Fucking _what._ **_Bloan?_**

That’d be funniest thing he’s heard all week if he hadn’t just been almost murdered.

“I mean _Blaise_ , who _works_ for you, even though he’s clearly miles better at everything!”

“Have you been bribing him to bitch about me?”

“He’s one of my _best friends_ , you absolute – I can’t. Potter, you’re a _moron_ , and I can’t.”

“You can’t _what?”_

“I can’t move! So get off me!”

“Not until you admit that you’re making it up!”

Instead of replying Draco makes a noise that comes out a lot less controlled and a lot more barbaric than he intended, shoving at Potter’s chest. It’s actually pretty well-defined. If it belonged to anyone else Draco would be impressed.

As it is, the situation ends just as ridiculously as it began. It sounds like Potter trips, which is hilarious and something Draco would give up a lot to see, and both of them are left sitting on the floor in a suddenly silent flat.

“Just to be clear,” Draco says, trying to act like his heart isn’t hammering. “This is all your fault.”


End file.
